Pleasantly Surprised

 

Sometimes, I don’t really mind being proven wrong …

Rangers 7, Yankees 4

 

The same company that sent my wife and me down to the ice to see the Dallas Stars for the first game of the first round of the Stanley Cup playoffs gifted us with tickets to see the Texas Rangers take on the New York Yankees. The account exec over there is well aware my wife is a huuuuge Yankee fan and came through on his promise to send us to see Aaron Judge and his teammates the next time they came down to Arlington.

 

As a transplanted New Jerseyite, I’m not a big fan of the Texas Rangers. In fact, I’m not a fan at all, really. We’ve been down here three years and this was our fourth trip to Globe Life Field. I did watch some of the playoffs last year when the Rangers knocked out the despised rival Houston Astros, and I think I watched the last game of the World Series where they defeated the Diamondbacks to win their first World Series title.

 

I’m also not a big fan of Globe Life field. In fact, I kinda hate it. Picture a humongous Abe Lincoln hat, then bury it in the ground. That’s the stadium. It’s a giant cylinder two hundred feet below ground level. It has a retractable roof that’s square in size which makes the ceiling look weirdly disproportionate. Its sort of like the architectural style of “brutalism” applied to a sports stadium. Around the rim, street level, are dozens and dozens of fast food, beer, and memorabilia stands, interspersed with elevators and bathrooms. It’s like a mall and a steampipe factory had a baby.

 

Also, since the roof has always been closed the four times I’ve been there, the stadium is a great big echo chamber. After every pitch the sound system blasts out excessively decibeled distorted music that, after the third inning, reminded me of why I hated the club life I was forced to participate in during my twenties by the simple fact of having friends. But I go to these games because the Mrs. is a dedicated Yankees fan, and she doesn’t get enough Yankees down here just north of Dallas.

 

My head pounded for another reason, late in the game. For this game will forever be known as the Great Yankee Clay Holmes Implosion.

 

The author and his wife during better times, 

i.e, the third inning

The first half of the game went quickly. Lots of three up three downs. A pitchers duel. Yankees pitcher Carlos Rodon was striking out a lot of batters. Yeah, he did give up a solo home run in the bottom of the fourth, but other than that the teams were equally matched in performance. Our seats were good, about twenty rows deep just off the right of home plate. Lots of foul balls came out way, the closest only seven seats down from us.

 

Then the Yanks got some runners on base in the seventh and eighth and scored two runs each inning. The momentum was clearly on their side. The crowd – which comprised, I estimated, of about 30 percent Yankee fans and I spotted at least forty or fifty 99 jerseys – the crowd began chanting “Let’s Go Yan-Kees” and cheered them on. Texas fans surrounding us seemed depressed, that is, those that were not drunk or on the way there.

 

Then, with the Yankee relievers entering the game, and peppered by an error and defensive miscue, the Rangers put two runs on the board in the bottom of the eighth. Going into the final inning, the Yanks held a 4-3 lead, and, little did I know, being used to more dominant Yankees from my time up north, this was thin ice territory for Aaron Boone and his team.

 

And they lived up to it – er, down to it – in spectacular fashion. Relief pitcher Clay Holmes, who makes $6 million this year from what I scanned online, came in as the closer. And immediately loaded the bases, throwing pitches into the dirt, out of the strike zone, and, for the last batter he faced, right down the middle, to be hit out of the park for a walk off grand slam.

 

The crowd was on its feet as one. The volume was ear-shattering. The celebration seemed worthy of a second franchise World Series win. We slunked out of our seats and bolted up the stairs amidst Rangers fans hugging, taking selfies, and breaking out into group pockets of orgiastic cheering. Up on the ground level we scooted out with several hundred Yankees fans, sideswept by departing Rangers revelers, and left the stadium in record time. The Mrs. wouldn’t even allow me a trip to the rest room, that’s how fast she wanted out of there.

 

I sensed this was historic. I haven’t been following the Yanks or any MLB baseball this year (really since the league went woke around 2019 or so), but on the drive home we checked out the fan response on Yankees twitter and on the fan site Pinstripe Alley, and had a lot of belly laughs. I am now somewhat up to speed on the fiasco that is Clay Holmes, the erratic mismanagement of manager Aaron Boone, and see now why the Yankees organization can’t give Aaron Judge a ring to cement him as one of the all-time greats. It seems this is the eleventh blown save of Holmes this year, and the record of 14 is well within his reach as Boone doesn’t seem willing to bench him.

And then I was almost cornered and bit by a Doberman! But that’s a story for later this week …

Texas Hockey

 

A big theme down here when we watch the Stars is “Texas Hockey.” As in rowdy announcers warning us to get ready for some … Texas Hockey!! It’s on the advertising, it’s on the pre-game commercials. Texas Hockey.

Which just strikes me as odd. Sorry, I enjoy it and all, but hockey is … a winter sport. Yeah, the playoffs run to mid-June. Yeah, the season starts in October when it still can get quite warm and the leaves have not yet turned colors and fallen off the trees. Hockey was always associated with cold, snow, and, well, ice. As a kid, we all played baseball in the spring and summer, football in the fall, and when it got too cold to go outside to play, we broke out the sticks and played hockey in our basements.

Now, it doesn’t rise to the level of full oxymoron. You know, “Jumbo Shrimp” and “Honest Politician” and all. But it’s up there on the scale. Maybe a linguistic taxidermist could label it a “minor oxymoron” or, even better, an “oxyminor.” I dunno. I’ve had better ideas.

Texas Hockey!

The Stars have been down here since 1993, and that’s 31 years, so yeah, I guess there is a thing such as Texas hockey. They moved down here, however, from the more apropos Minnesota, where they were called the North Stars. When I study a map of NHL franchises, I see a handful of teams south of the Mason-Dixon Line (eight, actually), and two that are of latitudes more southern than we here in Dallas (the Tampa Bay Lightning, formed in 1992, and the Florida Panthers, founded a year later).

I guess my gut is telling me hockey “should” only be played in a location where … ice stays ice when left outside. At least for more than a couple of hours a year. You know, anywhere in Canada. Chicago. New York, Boston, Pennsylvania. Anywhere potentially north of the Sun Belt.

Anyway, I’ve spent a while trying to convince my wife of my convictions, and she’s come to see things my way. We amuse ourselves now trying to come up with similar “oxyminors”, activities that are proudly done in places where one might least suspect them. Such as …

 

New England Bull-riding!

Miami Skiing!

The 2024 Arizona Luge Championships!

Seattle Surfing Safari! Catch the Wave!

…….

Texas Hockey!

I absolutely do not own this t-shirt, nor do I absolutely want it for 

Father's Day, my birthday, or Christmas.

Dallas Stars Playoffs

 

I’ve only been to about ten NHL games in my life; most in the three years we’ve been down in Texas and a couple in the 40+ years I lived up in New Jersey. Even though I don’t go often, when I do go it’s usually eventful. One memorable game was the start of my brother’s bachelor party in 1997. At another I sat a few rows behind the Rangers bench and caught a puck. It flopped over the plexiglass literally right into my jacket. So many hands assaulted me I thought I was pickpocketed for a moment.

 

Anyway, the wife is a networker, and when she networks she gets stuff. One company looking to do business with her offered us front row seats right on the ice. Along with VIP passes. For Game One of the first series of the playoffs. We instantaneously said “Yes!” So though it was a tough loss for the Dallas Stars, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, ate and drank pretty darn good for free in the VIP longue in the depths of the arena, got our playoff towels, and even made it on to TV.

 

The Stars lost again at home Wednesday, putting us in an unfortunate 0-2 deficit against the Knights. The away game in Vegas is tonight, but since it’s late we’ll watch it tomorrow morning. The Stars had a pretty dominant regular season, winning their division with multiple offensive weapons and an All-Star goalie, that it would be a shame to be sent home after the first series in the hunt for the Stanley Cup.

 

Here’s some pics from Monday’s game:

Opening ceremonies

Joe Pavelski, my wife's favorite player

Captain Jamie Benn after scoring 

Jake Oettinger in net

Faceoff

Tanev racing up ice with the puck

Tyler Seguin getting frustrated

Another faceoff

Marchment, one of our favorites

Mrs. Hopper banging on the plexiglass

Results 48 hours later of Mrs. Hopper banging on the plexiglass

No Bread and Circuses Today

 

My family won’t be watching the Super Bowl today. We decided we have better things to do.

 

Now, the NFL died to me sometime around 2017 or 2018, I think (I haven’t been keeping track and can’t be bothered to confirm the exact season). You know, when the whole kneeling thing started. I didn’t watch a single game for several years, and that includes my beloved New York Giants as well as any playoff games or Super Bowls.

 

This unofficial boycott lasted until about 2022 or so. We moved down to Texas which has such a football culture. My brother-in-law tried to get us into watching college ball, but it just didn’t stick with me. Funny story with that – and one I can’t write about without being canceled. And as a diehard Giants fan, I can’t rightly root for the Cowboys. So that season I think we just watched the Super Bowl. Rams, was it? Or was it Tom Brady’s Bucs? Can’t remember; these things all seem to mishmash into each other.

 

Then early this past fall with the horrendous Giants having something like four primetime appearances in the first five weeks we started watching them again. After that, not so much as both the Giants and Jets were a little south of mediocre all year and not often broadcasted this part of the South. We watched some post-season games; since my wife spent her first eight years of life in a Detroit suburb, we rooted for the Lions. Naturally, they did not advance to the Super Bowl.

 

The whole thing has an astroturfed stink to it, doesn’t it? I mean, that obnoxious Kelce guy and the NFL embarrassingly fawning over all things Tayor Swift. You absolutely knew the Chiefs would be in the big game. Go to YouTube and you’ll find any number of videos about the current state of NFL refereeing, horrible and conspiratorial and hypocritically subjective. They’re like Goodell’s evil minions, the NFL commissioner’s praetorian guard. And the league still panders to the left-wing wokeism from the late 2010s. It’s all so overtly manufactured and it’s all, ultimately, meaningless.

 

So instead of watching the “festivities” drone-like, hive-like, NPC-like, we’re going to do something different this year. Yeah, we’ll still have the appetizers coming out of the oven full-force later today (potato skins, mozzarella sticks, jalapeno poppers, etc.) but we’ll eat them watching a classic from by-gone days: 1977’s Star Wars, the original, the one-and-only, untainted by Disney and DEI. I’m actually really looking forward to it. Last time I saw it the little ones were really little.

 

If you want to subject yourself to Taylor Swift – I mean, the Super Bowl – more power to you. I was once in your shoes. Actually, for most of my life. I’ll be on Tatooine and the Death Star this evening.

 

Super Bowl LV

 

OK, have to come clean. The family and I watched Super Bowl LV, at the wife’s suggestion. We haven’t watched much NFL since it became woke three or four years ago. Did not watch a regular season game or a playoff game over the past two seasons, and we did not watch last year’s Super Bowl. The Mrs. suggested it would be a fun thing to do as a family as we’ve been pretty much snowed in all week. We could skip the pregame, mute the commercials, and hold our noses should any nonsense seep its way in to the telecast. I reluctantly agreed.

I drew up a 10 x 10 betting grid to get the girls involved. Everyone penciled 25 nicknames for him- or herself into it and we drew numbers 0-9 randomly out of a hat. $5 a quarter for whoever had the last two digits of the score. This actually worked, and the girls watched the game intently. Patch won the first quarter, Little One the remaining three. Mom and I didn’t, and if we did, we’d “play it forward” and contribute our winnings to the next quarter. Still, “It’s not fair!” Patch cried, angry at her sister’s winnings. To which we had to laugh: “Actually, it’s extremely fair! – it’s completely random and based on the play of two teams who have no idea you’re betting on them.”

We thought of ordering wings from Biggies, but with the six inches we got (which ended only a little after 4 pm, after which we all had to go out and shovel), we decided against. Fortunately, during errands yesterday, we stocked up the freezer with TGIF snacks: potato skins, mozzarella sticks, jalapeno poppers, and French bread pizza. So we ate all that during the first half. Totally off my keto diet, but well worth it.

Now, the game itself.

It started off a little flat, but then the Bucs picked up steam and Kansas City just … didn’t. I haven’t followed football all year and not during the runup to the big game, but I do understand Andy Reid’s son got into a car accident a few days ago which left a little girl in the hospital. I do think that was a factor. But Tampa Bay came to play, did all their homework, had all the bases covered, and the Chiefs, well, I am reminded of that famous quote attributed to Mike Tyson: “Everyone has a plan until he gets punched in the face.”

It was a boring game, save for the valiant attempts of Patrick Mahomes to get any of his receivers to catch a ball. When he wasn’t being grinded down by Todd Bowles’s defense. That ankle must be killing him today.

And I can’t believe I am writing this, but, I have to admit, I am grudgingly coming to respect Tom Brady. Twenty years of hating him – his regular twice yearly humiliating thrashing of the Jets and the triannual whipping of the Giants (who seem to only be able to beat him in the Super Bowl) – that’s reason enough. I dunno, I found myself kinda rooting for him. Maybe it was the change of scenery away from New England and Belichick. Maybe it’s the fact he was considered washed up and he picked himself up and moved down south, took over another team, and brought them to a Super Bowl victory. Maybe, even, it’s because he has the courage to be a Trump supporter in these Soviet days of America. Maybe it’s because he decided conspicuously not to wear a mask.

It’s probably all these things, in that descending order of importance.

So congratulations, Tom. You earned it.

Curious that there were no kneelers on the sidelines during the anthem and that there were jets flown overhead. Were the players spoken to beforehand? Told not to offend half of America on its most important secular holiday? Or are we going to see a return to normalcy on the gridiron now that Orange Man Gone? I dunno. I’m exhausted of politics, and don’t even want to speculate.

But I don’t plan on watching the NFL next year.

Until, possibly, the Super Bowl. Maybe then those quarters in the Casa Hopper betting grid will be worth $10 a piece.

 

To Strike Fear in His Opponent’s Heart

Why does every other pitcher in Major League Baseball c. 2019 seek to look like a gas station attendant?

Surely there are more intimidating images to cultivate, no?

This Made Me Laugh

Patchzilla

Why does this

Remind me of this?

(Note: the pic at the top is typical pre-game Patch. Much like the blue-faced Mel Gibson from Braveheart, Patch wears the goat horns – Greatest Of All Time horns, that is – as psychological warfare, to intimidate any opponent foolish enough to challenge her on the soccer field.)

Strat-o-matic

One of the craziest, most unpredictable thing that happened this past summer was that Little One, now a not-so-little fourteen-year-old, suddenly inexplicably woke up one morning a diehard Yankee fan. We’d gone to a Met game that May, and she enjoyed it, liked the party atmosphere and the stadium goodies (ice cream in the mini batting helmet), but really didn’t follow the game nor cheered or booed. Same thing when I’d watch a game at home. We’d been going regularly to Yankee games, too, one or two a summer, over the years, and it elicited the same response from her.

Then, sometime in June, she woke up that diehard Yankee fan.

She learned the names of all the guys on the team, and gave them all nicknames. Then she learned their stats and their backstories. Then she started box scoring the games. Then she started DVR’ing games she couldn’t watch live. Then she requested Yankee tickets for special occasions like her Middle School graduation and birthday. This past Christmas she got Yankee socks, a Yankee banner, and a Yankee scarf to compliment all her other Yankee gear, such as the Yankee jersey and the Yankee pillow.

Two months ago, after the Yankees lost in the playoffs, I wondered about her psychological state of mind. What would get her through the next six months until Spring Training ’19?

Strat-o-matic baseball!

It was a game from my youth, something I hardly thought about over the past forty years. But I knew it was the perfect Christmas gift for Little One from Dad.

Strat-o-matic baseball is a baseball simulation game using a set of dice to determine the outcome of every at-bat. You’re the manager; you assemble a batting lineup based on a statistic card for each player on your team. You also need to take into account the player’s position fielding rating, too. Once you and your opponent have created your batting order (and ok’d the opponent’s lineup), you play the game just as a regular game is played, and you box score it.

There’s a red die and two white ones. The red die determines whose stat card you use – 1 to 3 and you consult the batter’s card, 4 to 6 the pitcher’s. Then you use the numbers on all three to see the outcome of the at-bat. Thus, each card has 36 outcomes, and they’re based on the player’s actual performance in actual play. Some outcomes are straightforward, like a strikeout or a walk. When the result comes up as a groundball or a fly ball, the position it was hit to is indicated. You then consult another chart and roll a geeky 20-sided dice to determine the outcome of that grounder or fly ball.

It sounds dull and clinical, but it really isn’t. I remember having a blast playing it with my brother and uncle way back in the late 70s, and so far Little One and I have been enjoying it – much to my delight. So far we’ve played two games. The first, on a lazy Christmas afternoon, her Astros beat my Cubs in a late inning rally, 7-6. The second, played last night, my Twins (led by Bartolo Colon) wailed on her Astros, 9-6, leading 7-0 at one point.

We’re honing our skills before the subway series begins.

The 2018 version of Strat-o-matic baseball seems more comprehensive than the 1978 version. For one thing, we have all 32 teams, based on actual 2017 performance statistics. Forty years ago I think we only had four teams to use (one was the Cincinnati Big Red Machine, the other was the Yanks, and the other two I can’t recall). I don’t remember the nerdy 20-sided die being used back then; I think we just rolled all three dice at once to generate a result of 3-18. I guess you now have four more outcomes with the Dungeons and Dragons icosahedron. But everything else, all the charts and such, slowly came back to me. We’re going to expand beyond the basic game in the upcoming week, utilizing steals and righty vs lefty pitching and hitting. It should be fun. And on a side note, I hope the sabermetrical statistical thing might actually kindle an interest in mathematics in her. It is, after all, in her genes.

We’ve decided to play forty more games until Spring Training starts in med-February. I promised her the Mets will take six of eight of the Yankees match-ups, much like I said they would in actual games. We’ll see. It’s going to be World War III around the Hopper household over the next couple of weeks …

10 Things to Do Besides Watch the NFL

So it looks like the gridiron fools are at it again – kneeling and raising fists ostensibly in support of racial justice – whatever that is, it’s never explicitly defined and defended – but really to give the middle finger to President Trump, not realizing (or caring) they’re also hurling a big F-You to the half of America who either voted for him and/or now support him. You know, something like 80 percent of the NFL’s fan base.

I haven’t watched since some point near the beginning of the 2016 season, and I didn’t watch any of the 2017 season – not even the Super Bowl. After initial withdrawal symptoms not unlike quitting smoking, I didn’t miss it at all. So my boycott will continue, although now it’s actually not even a boycott. I just have no urge to watch.

For those who still do, however, I would like to humbly offer 10 things to do instead of watch football this fall and winter.

1) Lift Weights.

Too busy to work out? Too busy to get stronger, physically and mentally? Well, now you can have anywhere from three to twelve hours free on a Sunday, depending on your old NFL habits. When I’m lifting (and I’m an off-again, on-again, currently off-again amateur lifter), I like to do three sets on a Sunday. My two workouts during the week are two sets, one for max reps and one for going up in weight. But on Sundays, there’s no rush to get through a workout.

2) Sharpen a Work Skill.

A novel thought, at least to me, that occurred once I had a family – down time does not have to be spent in wasteful (and often self-destructive) leisure. You can actually do something that improves your money earning potential. I got the tax thing going on, where I have all these new laws and regulations to study to help you all pay Uncle Sam, but surely you have something you can do – even for just three hours out of a sixty-hour weekend – that would help your earnings potential, no?

3) Read Military History.

Football is basically a substitute for war. It’s martial by nature, a civilized form of battle. Why not study the real thing? I’ve found the Civil War and World War II endlessly fascinating, from a birds-eye view of strategy and tactics, logistics, equipment and personnel. A terrible thing it truly is, and like all terrible things, I think we benefit from a close study of it.

4) Hang Out With That Neglected Buddy.

One of my buddies has not a shred of interest in football. It’s almost eerie and off-putting hanging with someone, especially on a Sunday, who cares little about the local team – who doesn’t even know who the quarterback is – nor gives a rat’s behind about the Super Bowl. But it’s not eerie and off-putting, it’s actually kind of normal. Be that guy, and hang out with those types of guys.

5) Run / Jog / Walk / Bike / Move.

Anything. Just get off the couch. Put the beer down; drink it instead later before dinner, as a reward for your exertion. When I think of all the beer I drank in relation to the NFL, I think of a football field littered with the fossilized remains of tens of thousands of aluminum cans strewn round pyramids of rusted kegs. Oh my poor heart! I think I’ll go for a two-mile walk now.

6) Read Something Incredibly Challenging and Focus-Demanding.

For many years I’ve had Being and Time by Martin Heidegger and The Critique of Pure Reason by Immanuel Kant sitting in my basement. These cinderblock odes to dense and possibly useless theoretical frameworks of reality mock me several times a week; at least when I’m in the basement doing laundry. Anyway, one day I vowed that one day I would read them, cover to cover, and understand them. Conquer them, so to speak. It may be the largest waste of time for a simple man as myself, but the possibility that it would be the most important waste of time keeps me from tossing them in the trash. Heidegger! Kant! Thanks to Kaepernick and Goodell, you’re now on notice!

7) Throw a Football with Your Little Ones.

Yeah, it’s flirting with danger. Like a dude celebrating his 30-day A.A. chip by drinking a soda in a bar. But last fall me and the girls would go out in the front yard and toss that pigskin around for twenty minutes or a half-hour, and we’d have tons of fun with no frustration of watching the Giants lose. And my girls know how to throw a football! Only problem is that now my front yard is too small, with their arms. Have to go down the street now to the park.

8) Watch Rugby.

Last December I stumbled across a rugby game, and couldn’t change the channel. I was fascinated. Riveted. All the cardiac agility of soccer with the barbaric physicality of football. I watched for a full hour and still don’t know how it’s played, but I want to know. I heard rumor of a national rugby league starting up, and that’s piqued my interest. One night a few months ago I youtubed a bunch of games, but I still haven’t dedicated the time and effort to figure out exactly what this sport is. Wait, I know what it is – a potential replacement for the social justice driven NFL!

9) Watch Baseball then Switch to Hockey.

Baseball season now ends sometime in late October (possibly even early November). Hockey starts October 3 and lasts until Spring. There you go! Football season’s covered! My basic cable setup has a half-dozen channels that cover these sports. There’s always a baseball game or a hockey game on at night or on weekend afternoons. It’s probably the first baby step someone who’s heavily addicted to the No Fans Left league should take. I took it last year, and though the hockey bug didn’t bite me, the baseball bug did and also bit Little One as well, who now box scores every Yankee game.

10) Heck, Even Watch Soccer if you Need a Sports Fix.

As a last ditch alternative … J

A Night at Citi Field

Is, for Hopper and family, an exercise in ascetical mastery.

But it’s fun nonetheless.

We went last night and watched the Mets lose to the Rockies 2-0. It wasn’t a blowout; the Mets offense just didn’t show up and their pitchers made two mistakes. They threatened in the bottom of the eighth, with Yoenis singling, stealing second, and actually stealing third (though he was called back as the hitter fouled away).

Now I think I’m 1-6 lifetime at Citi Field.

Still, we enjoyed the night. There’s a nice party atmosphere at the park, and the girls had fun. Was hoping the Mets could stop their early season slide (they started out 11-1 but now have lost 5 in a row, being outscored 28-7 in the process). Like to get back to the stadium later in the season, hopefully with the Mets contending. That oughtta be even more fun.

We’ll see ….

The view from our seats (not as bad as it looks)

Yours truly and the Mrs.

The Big Apple that rises every time a Met hits a homer ... alas silent on this night

The whole Hopper clan

Kingman's Style

From chapter 5 of Dan Epstein’s very enjoyable Stars and Strikes: Baseball and American in the Bicentennial Summer of ’76 –

The Yankees’ crosstown counterparts weren’t starting off the season too badly, either. Despite their impressive pitching staff, few expected the offensively challenged Mets, under the guidance of rookie manager Joe Frazier, to be much of a factor in the NL East. And yet, they played 13-7 ball in April, thanks in part to the bat of their one major offensive weapon, right fielder Dave “Kong” Kingman. Kong – or “Sky King,” as Kingman preferred to be called – hit 36 homers for the Mets in 1975, and appeared to be on track for even more in ’76. The free-swinging Kingman rarely walked, and struck out around four times for every home run he hit; yet, despite an ungainly swing that Sports Illustrated’s Larry Keith likened to “a very tall man falling from a very short tree,” the 6’ 6” slugger specialized in gargantuan rainbow shots that seemed to pierce the very atmosphere before returning to earth. “Dave’s style is to swing hard in case he hits it,” said veteran Mets first baseman Ed Kranepool. “When he’s connecting, the only way to defense him is to sit in the upper deck. I’ve never seen anybody hit the ball farther.”

Nor had too many other people. On April 14, with the wind blowing out at Wrigley Field, Kingman launched a moon shot off of Cubs reliever Tom Dettore that sailed over the left field bleachers, carried across Waveland Avenue, and headed up Kenmore Avenue, where it finally caromed off the air-conditioning unit of a residence three houses up from the corner. Variously estimated at traveling between 530 and 630 feet, Sky King’s blast was widely adjudged to have been the longest home run ever hit at Wrigley. Though the Mets lost that game 6-5, Kingman came back the next day and sent two more baseballs flying out of the park and clanging off building facades along Waveland, with his second of the game plating three runs to give the Mets an eventual 10-8 victory. The three tape-measure blasts in Chicago came as part of a spree that saw Kingman hammer seven homers in seven days.

With his jaw-dropped power – even his infield pop-ups were awe-inspiring – and angular good looks, Kingman could have been a major New York celebrity, but the only swinging this bachelor ever did was on the field. A moody introvert, Kingman preferred to lead a solitary existence at his four-bedroom home in rural Cos Cob, Connecticut, where he spent his downtime building furniture in his garage. “I prefer a private life of my own. I like to live quietly,” he told sportswriter Jack Lang. “I enjoy playing in New York, but I don’t enjoy living in the city. I like peace and quiet. I like to get away from it all. I enjoy woodworking. I enjoy making things.”

* * * * * * *

Me, nine, ten years old, my dad a big Mets fan. Stretched out on the living room floor in the suffocating, air-conditioned-less heat, watching the Mets lose one game after another. Kingman was always exciting (at least to my father; I don’t even know if I understood the game all that well back then or even had the willpower to give it more than a half-inning’s attention). My brother even had Kingman’s autographed 8 ½ x 11, if I recall correctly. I also remember going to several games at the old Shea stadium, and even being quite close to the field one time, maybe a dozen rows behind the third base dugout.

Ah, memories from my youth …

Jackson and Rivers

If you listened to Reggie, you’d think he was the only intelligent guy on the whole Yankee team. That’s what Reggie says – over and over. He told that to Carlos May once. May didn’t give a damn what his IQ was and told him so. Reggie said, “You can’t even spell IQ.” Another time Reggie was giving Mickey Rivers the same jive. “My IQ is 160,” he told Mickey. Mickey looked at Reggie and said, “Out of what, a thousand?” Cracked everybody up. Reggie’s always trying to show Mickey how much smarter he is. One day he asked Mickey, “What am I doing arguing with someone who can’t read or write?” Mickey replied, “You oughta stop reading and writing and start hitting.”

- from The Bronx Zoo, by Sparky Lyle and Peter Golenbock

Funny stuff.

Baseball starts in three weeks. I’m excited, as I was this time last year. After three months of taxes and payroll and taxes and payroll, I’m ready for a break. This year, as last, I found it difficult to lose myself in my standard regular reading. Particularly since I have so little free time. But I have a couple of baseball books acquired here and there for a few dollars, books I’ve started going through. It’s fun ’cause it takes my mind off the pressures of daily living without pondering all the existential literary questions I usually chase a busy day with.

The Mets are predicted to go .500 and might even challenge for the wild card if they can stay healthy. And the Yanks – according to one of my baseball forecast magazines – are thought to go all the way. We’ll see about both teams. The Mets can’t go any worse than last year, and as long as the Yankees make it to the playoffs, the family will be happy.

We’ve budgeted two trips to the baseball stadium this year. Once to Citi Field, for me, and once to Yankee Stadium, for the girls and my father-in-law. And if the wife can catch a cheap Groupon, we might do a third. I always have a fun time there, Citi Field more than Yankee Stadium but only by a little bit, and whether the temps hover around freezing or close to a hundred, I find those three hours almost as enjoyable as an endless afternoon in a used book store with a wallet full of cash.

Week 4 of the 2017 NFL Season

TIME: Sunday, 12:50 pm

PLACE: An apartment in a gentrified section of a blue state city

Old Hippie, Social Justice Warrior, and Woke Hipster sit snacking on kale chips and kraut frittatas, sipping IPA beer, waiting for the game to start …

OLD HIPPIE: So why are we watching football this week? I’ve never watched a game in my life.

SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIOR: The only football I’m aware of is fútbol. You know, soccer. We’re like the only country that doesn’t recognize the greatness of soccer.

WOKE HIPSTER: I watched a four-hour World Cup game once. Venezuela beat Cuba, 1-0.

OLD HIPPIE: But football is so … warlike.

SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIOR: We have to support the players. They’re honoring the sacrifices made by our fathers and grandfathers by kneeling during the national anthem. It’s what our fathers and grandfathers would have wanted.

WOKE HIPSTER: They fought and died for our right to protest! Even things they routinely did out of love for this country. It’s like the only thing that makes this country great.

OLD HIPPIE: Look – there’s barely anyone in the stands. Maybe the owners should let the homeless or some undocumented immigrants in to watch the games.

SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIOR: Why are there soldiers and all that flag waving on the field? Is it to remind viewers of America’s imperialism under Republican presidents?

WOKE HIPSTER: Hey, they’re showing highlights from last week’s games. I don’t see anyone kneeling though. Just a bunch of running and throwing and kicking that brown ball thing.

OLD HIPPIE: I’m not comfortable with all this violence. Hitting and tackling. Isn’t there a better way to play football?

SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIOR: How about each team tries to raise awareness for some worthy cause, like man-made climate change or transgender bathrooms, and the two teams who raise the most awareness get to be in the Super Bowl?

WOKE HIPSTER: Pope Francis could umpire the Super Bowl. He’s really great when it comes to climate change, and he’s totally nonjudgmental.

OLD HIPPIE: How would we decide which team raised the most awareness?

SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIOR: By whichever one raises the most money?

WOKE HIPSTER: I’m not comfortable with money. It just oozes privilege and is so patriarchal.

OLD HIPPIE: And these names! We’ll have to change some of these team names.

SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIOR: We’ll need a federal judge for that. I’ll call my friend at the ACLU.

WOKE HIPSTER: The New York Giants! What, are there no short people in New York?

OLD HIPPIE: So ableist. If I was a dwarf I would be uncomfortable rooting for the Giants.

SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIOR: Wait – can we say ‘dwarf’?

WOKE HIPSTER: And what if you’re a very tall person? Surely not everyone on the Giants is, uh, a giant. Sounds like appropriation to me.

OLD HIPPIE: Shhh! The game is starting. They’re playing the anthem. The players are taking a knee!

SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIOR: Quick, let’s take a knee in solidarity with our brothers in the NFL.

WOKE HIPSTER: When will women be allowed to play in the NFL?

OLD HIPPIE: I know, right? Hashtag women in the NFL now!